MARATHON
by Betz88
Summary: House is in pain. A lot. James Wilson understands this very well. Reworked story of my first HOUSE fiction. One shot. Easy read!


"MARATHON"

Betz88

_Stubborn son-of-a-bitch!_

James Wilson turned the corner and walked slowly toward his colleague's office. His thoughts ranged from half angry to half sympathetic.

_For the life of me I can't figure out why the hell I try to maintain a friendship with that man! He's been snappish and rotten for days! Even more so than usual. He gets me pissed off at myself for being snappish and rotten in return._

_The difference must be the look of him when he came in this morning. I knew he would bust my ass for it, but I followed him anyway. Something was way off center, and Gregg doesn't do off-center. Well, maybe he does … but not with me!_

Wilson knew from the moment he'd arrived that morning that Gregg was in a bad way. Watching his friend hitch himself down the corridor to his office made Wilson's stomach lurch until he finally had to look away. So he'd followed House as he moved with his head down, bent over the damn cane and oblivious to everything around him. Wilson watched from a distance as Gregg struggled with the shoulder strap of his sports bag and fumbled around with the cane, trying to unlock the door to his office. When he set the bag down, lowered himself gingerly into his chair without even removing his jacket, Wilson positioned himself near the blind spot just outside the doorway to watch and monitor the other man's situation.

House's movements were rigid, charged with effort and exhaustion, his hand shaking as he reached to his jacket pocket for the Vicodin. Already he was having a bad day, and it had only just begun. He palmed two pills and took them dry, then rested his head back on the backrest of the chair and closed his eyes.

Wilson stiffened. _You're back to taking two again?_ He was about to move forward, make himself known, when House moaned on the verge of outcry and straightened quickly. James drew himself back out of sight and continued to watch. House bent over his bad leg, using both hands to lift it up to the level of his black leather stool, and then straightened it out with a ragged sigh. He leaned back in the chair once again.

This time Wilson stepped forward and entered the office as though he were just arriving, and walked over to where Gregg sat. "You look a little beat up this morning," he observed nonchalantly.

House snorted. "Been babysitting me again, you idiot," he snapped. "I heard you from the minute you pussyfooted after me all the way from the freakin' elevator! Watching out for the cripple again, huh? Well, don't bother. I just need to be alone awhile if you don't mind." He turned his head in the opposite direction, facing the vertical blinds on his window, pretending to find something fascinating over there to stare at.

"Who do you think you're kidding?" Wilson shot back. "What's happening with you? I know you. Come on, House! You can barely walk, and you look like death warmed over. If Cuddy finds out, she'll have you admitted for observation."

That did the trick. Gregory House snapped his head back to attention and straightened up, then looked across to meet his friend's eyes reproachfully. "No way in hell!" He whispered angrily. "That's never gonna happen again as long as I'm still breathing!"

Wilson ignored him. "Then level with me, dammit! What happened to you? I don't know what's wrong, but something sure is. Talk to me!"

House sighed and spoke in a low tone as though he did not want even the walls to overhear. "I had spasms last night. Two or three in a row. My leg went out from under me when I got up to get ready for bed, and I whacked it a good shot on the edge of the coffee table. I thought I was going to pass out. You can guess the rest."

Wilson shook his head sadly. "Yeah, guess so. Did you ice it? Try a cold compress?"

"No." Flatly. "Hurt so damn bad I couldn't think. Couldn't move. Couldn't care. Just wanted to curl up somewhere and go to sleep."

"And did you? Sleep?"

"Hour or two, maybe. On the freakin' floor! Then the sun came up … just like it seems to do like clockwork most days. You know how it goes …"

In spite of himself , Wilson chuckled. "Yeah, I know how it goes. And you slept on the floor." It was a statement, not a question. "No wonder you can barely walk. So how the hell did you get to work?"

"I rode the bike … how do you think?"

"You rode that damn suicide machine?"

"Yeah. How did you think I would get here? Run? I don't think I could do a marathon right now."

"My God, man, you could have killed yourself!"

"You're beginning to sound like my mother, you know that, Wilson? Just like a damn naggy little echo goin' round and round inside my head."

"Pretty soon I'm going to sound like your worst nightmare!" Wilson shot back. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I was _thinking_ I needed to get to work! If you recall, it was you who insisted I put hand controls in the damn car. So I did. Now I wouldn't be caught dead in the damned thing. At least the motorcycle gives me the illusion of having two good legs once in awhile. Not like the right one is going to be good for anything … like pressing down on a brake or a gas pedal." He laughed, and it was a sarcastic, angry laugh that began deep in his throat and roiled outward. "The only thing the son-of-a-bitch is good for anymore is giving my other shoe a cool place to hang out!"

"Gregg. Please." Wilson found himself pleading and hating himself for it. "This isn't helping you any."

"Yeah? Well, there isn't anything I know of that _will_ help me any, so I might as well keep bitching. Oh, by the way, did I ever tell you that it's not going to get better? I'm always going to walk like I'm thirty years older than I am. Or forty. Or fifty. Take your pick. The only time it ever gets any better anymore is when I'm mad as hell. So I try to stay mad as hell. You get it?"

"Sure," Wilson replied with equal sarcasm. "And while you're feeling sorry for yourself, why don't you just take it out on everyone who cares for you. There aren't many of us left, you know! Do it up right!" He stopped short, so tired of the same conversation; the same litany. His voice softened dramatically. "House … let me go get you a set of crutches. We'll go to the nearest exam room. I'll take a look. Maybe there's something I can do to ease your pain."

"_No_! No crutches! No way! I'll just stay here 'til it starts to tame down. The meds'll

kick in soon. I'm fine! Get the hell out of here! Go find yourself a little bald kid to take pity on!"

James Wilson closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, then expelled it with a sharp whistle between clenched teeth. He threw back his head in exasperation. _Stubborn prick! _ "Okay, have it your way. Don't say I didn't offer!" He turned slowly on his heel and headed for the door, not looking back. Behind him he could feel the biting stare of smoldering blue eyes burning holes in the shirt on his back.

xxxxxxxx

It had been a long day indeed. Patient after patient with much more serious medical problems than Gregory House streamed through the Oncology Department in an unending line. Wilson, however, never failed to offer a kind word or a smile as some of them struggled through radiation treatments, or sat with IVs full of noxious chemicals contaminating their veins. Even the sickest ones, their faces pinched from nausea or pain, could count on the kindness and caring of Dr. James Wilson. He was a gentle soul who truly wanted to help people.

As the day wore on, however, his thoughts kept returning to the lonely office two floors down, where a special friend dealt with his own bitterness, his own demons. His own pain. James did not quite understand why his concern for this angry man took all precedence over everything else in his life.

xxxxxxxx

It was seven in the evening before Wilson finally got out of there, and again his thoughts returned to Gregg House. Had he sought help of any kind for his own problem? Probably not. On the way down to the ground floor, James decided to check by Gregg's office, ease his own mind that House wasn't still hiding in shadows from the world and from himself.

It was dark, both inside the hospital … and out.

The vertical blinds were drawn and the Diagnostics Office was mostly in silhouette; stark and hollow when the man who resided there wasn't in it. Sometimes even when he was, Wilson realized. But wait! The cane's heavy stark outline stood out glaringly, propped against the side of the desk. James felt a cold chill skitter down the length of his spine and a hollow place opened up deep in his gut. Nasty digestive juices bubbled upward in cadence with his rising alarm.

He leaned in through the unlocked door.

_Oh shit!_

"House? Are you still here? House? Answer me!"

At last there came the sound of movement from the corner between the wall and the balcony door. Wilson hurried closer and dropped his briefcase on the floor. Gregory House was just sitting there, leaning crookedly against the rigidity of the wall. His weak leg was bent as close to his body as he could manage, his head bowed down to his chest. Wilson went to his side and knelt, touching his friend's face lightly with the backs of his fingers.

_Oh this is just marvelous! Two nights in a row on the goddamned floor!_

"House?" Gently. "Are you conscious?"

The sigh that floated back to him was half relief, half exasperation. "Still checking on the cripple, huh? I might have known …" A tiny smile tugged weakly at one corner of Gregg's mouth, accentuating the deep dimple that resided there. The long slender fingers of House's opposite hand came up and grasped Wilson's wrist with something that might have been affection. Then it was quickly withdrawn. Could it have been gratitude?

_Nah!_

"Sure gotta piss!" He grumbled with a smirk, hoping for a reaction. There wasn't one, so he continued. "Can't seem to get up off the damn floor. Been skulking around in here all day … watching the great unwashed parading by. All three of the kids came looking, sticking their noses in one by one, but left again. Cuddy stopped by three times … not one of 'em saw me sitting here in the dark. That woman couldn't find her ass with both hands. I'm hungry … and can you help me to the head? My freakin' bladder's about to explode!"

Wilson laughed with relief and stood up, gently touching a thin shoulder. "I love you too," he said dismissively.

Only a subdued huff came back in return, but to Wilson it was as good as an affirmation. Only then did he notice there was no fancy sneaker on House's right foot.

"That bad?" He inquired softly.

"Oh Christ, if you only knew! Pants too tight around the calf … foot swelled and pain goes through the roof. Now get me my pain pills and get me to the john before I wet you down like a fire hose!"

James did.

Later, when Gregg was settled back into his desk chair and the offices were silent around them, Wilson reiterated an earlier question. "Will you let me find you a set of crutches so you can get to an exam room? I need to take a look at your leg."

The look he got back was scathing. Then: "Yeah. Guess it's better at night without an audience, you know?"

"Yeah, I know." But Jim's eyes were still questioning.

House knew the look. He'd seen that look a thousand times. He'd put up with it ever since the early days of his original injury. "It hurts like hell, okay? But nothing like it did this morning."

He got the tight, concerned nod he'd expected. He looked away, hiding his face, and smiled with exasperation.

"Okay!" Wilson said. "Be right back."

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The crutches beneath his arms made him feel even more clumsy than he did with the cane. He'd had to take the jacket off. It was rumpled anyway, after having been scrunched beneath him all day. His leg wanted to sag, drag his foot across the floor. It had had a mind of its own over the past few years. With effort he hitched it up, and the pain came shooting back.

_What the fuck did I do to myself? It was only a bump!_

By the time they made it to the exam room, he was pale, shaky and exhausted, and it was impossible to hide it from Wilson.

House lay on his back on the gurney, eyes glazed, sweating like a pig and looking half embarrassed with his jeans off and tossed over a chair. Wilson was staring down at the wasted quadriceps muscle, the site of House's "muscle death" episode, and the area where a huge surgical scar knotted a deep furrow through surrounding skin and tissue. The site had darkened to a deep purple bruise, and the contusion was serious, but hardly dangerous. "You're such a beautiful shade of purple, you could play offense for the Minnesota Vikings with this!" James remarked nastily. "Give those guys a run for their money! Well, maybe not!"

The younger doctor then tilted his head to the side and looked his friend in the eyes. "You're going to have to use the crutches for a few days, at least. There's no way you can weight-bear on this for awhile. You know that, don't you?" There was a decidedly snarky grin on his face.

House was not amused. "Wilson, you're a Goddamned Simon Legree! Maybe I can just stay home the rest of the week and …"

"The hell you will!" Jim Wilson growled. His good mood was back, no longer frightened that his friend had reinjured himself seriously. "You did this to yourself, idiot! You can take the consequences. I'll come by the rest of the week and drive you to work myself. Besides, your bike's in the parking lot. Impossible for you to get it home anyway. Plenty of time for your leg to heal a bit before you can ride again."

"Maybe one of the kids could …"

"_No!"_

"Well shit! In the meantime I'm going to have to hold off both them and Cuddy. All I need for a whole damn week is them to hang around and go: 'tsk tsk tsk' … like I'm a lopsided lawn ornament."

"Oh, you'll figure out a way," Wilson remarked, still in that snarky tone which Gregg recognized jealously as his own. James pointed gleefully to the aluminum arm-canes leaning against the side of the gurney. "Now you've got _two_ clubs to whack 'em with instead of just the one. I'm sure you'll manage."

House pursed his lips thoughtfully, and Wilson could tell there was another light snapping on in his upper story. Gingerly, Gregg pushed himself to a sitting position and slid his legs to the side of the gurney. Wilson helped him pull on the worn jeans, fitted and retied the fancy sneakers, held out the crutches, then supported most of Gregg's weight as he slid cautiously to the floor on his one sound leg.

"I could knock 'em all silly if I hit 'em with one of these!" House observed dryly.

"I'm sure you could."

"Chase 'em through the halls …"

"And beat their brains out!"

"Yeah … Marathon!"

"Come on, House. You have to get off your leg. You said you were hungry. Let's go get something to eat. My treat. If you behave yourself, I might even buy you a beer."

"Fuck you!"

xxxxxxxx

_And that's the story of my day. That's pretty much the story of a LOT of days around this place!_

xxxxxxxx

_Damn fool! I don't know why I put up with him. All he does is bitch at people. Nobody wants to be around him. He snarls at Cuddy and the kids like a junk yard dog! He totally pisses me off!_

_He gets away with murder because he knows he can. He bites people's heads off and they don't bite back. They just sit there with their mouths hanging open, too shocked to challenge him. He loves it. It keeps him in control._ _His disabled leg holds no dominion there. _

_Oh yeah, another thing … he looks frail. Fragile. He looks as though if you dropped him, he would shatter into little tiny pieces._ _Don't you believe it! You've got to look beyond the crutches … the cane … or whatever he has to use this week. He's got a strength that'll make you dizzy. And he can handle himself if he has to. He's not a weak man._ _Except for the leg, he's in great physical shape. He has to be! It takes great stamina to be disabled. In many respects._

_Oh, don't get me wrong … his pain is real. If he has one true weakness, that's it. He hurts. Twenty four-seven. Just like today, he never knows when one small misstep will put out his running lights for days. Weeks._ _I've seen him in so much pain_ _there were tears in his eyes. He's learned to deal with it … and with well-meaning people who only want to help. Why he feels shame with that, I don't know, but he does. Maybe some day he'll tell me. Those are the times he gets pissy. It's nothing._

_I know him, you see. I've known him for a long time, and he has one of the kindest hearts in the whole world. But you'll never see it. I have, though not very often. Those moments are few and far between, and he guards them jealously. _

_Nature of the beast, I guess._

_Gregory House is the best friend I've ever had. I love the hell out of him and he knows it. Takes advantage every damn chance he gets. Treats me like shit around other people, but he'd give me the shirt off his back. (I think I'd iron it before I wore it, though!)_

_So! I guess if I could barely move most of the time, and if I were in the kind of pain he puts up with every day of his life, I'd be bitchy too._

_But Goddamnit! He pisses me off!_

_Stubborn son of a bitch!_

End

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